


The Eye, the Window, the Soul

by Padraigen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle Attend Hogwarts Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hate Sex, Legilimency (Harry Potter), M/M, Mind Manipulation, Mindfuck, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:54:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25205065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Padraigen/pseuds/Padraigen
Summary: They said Tom Riddle didn't know remorse. So Harry showed him his—his remorse, grief, torment, despair. His entire life, ripped from him by the hands of a monster again and again.They said Tom Riddle couldn't know love. So Harry showed him that, too.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 24
Kudos: 435





	1. part one

“Riddle’s staring at you again,” Reggie muttered, casting dubious—and, unfortunately, obvious; Reginald Weasley had no discretion to speak of—glares towards the Slytherin table on the other side of the hall.

Harry only hummed in response, by now quite used to the prickly, burning feeling alighting his skin that could only mean he had the attention of one Tom Marvolo Riddle. Apparently unwanted attention would be a constant in Harry’s life, no matter the time period. Although, ‘unwanted’ was putting it rather mildly.

He hated being the subject of Riddle’s sickening scrutiny almost as much as he hated Riddle himself.

His resolution to lay low until he found a solution to his unfavorable situation—or, more accurately, until he found a solution to help him find a solution—promptly deteriorated after only a day when he ran into Riddle, almost literally, while wandering around the castle in the middle of the night.

One glance at that upturned nose and pretentious frown of disappointment at having found a student up and about past curfew was enough to make him draw his wand and fire a nasty hex at Riddle’s loathsome face.

He’d only realized his mistake after the fact, and had sped away towards Gryffindor tower praying that Riddle’s tongue was now too swollen to be able to counter properly. His escape was more likely to do with the fact he had caught Riddle off guard, however.

Harry had done that a lot since arriving in 1944, despite his best efforts.

“Why won’t you just let me set a dungbomb off on him? It’ll be easy enough to catch him whilst he’s patrolling, and Peeves has already agreed to set it off for me, so he won’t even know I had anything to do with it.”

Reggie had taken it upon himself to become Harry’s guardian the moment Harry was re-sorted into Gryffindor. Harry had, at first, made great efforts to avoid him due to how much he reminded him of Fred—just looking at him had sent a pang of grief through his heart. But Reggie had plowed a place for himself in Harry’s life with single-minded determination that only a Weasley could possess. Harry really hadn’t stood a chance.

“I’ve already told you, Reggie. He’s not worth bothering with.”

And this was true enough. Riddle was not Voldemort—not yet anyway. He was a seventeen year old with great ambition and the skill and intelligence to back it up. But he was also a teenager. Harry delighted in the way he could baffle him, make him twitch, force him to check his temper.

He wasn’t Lord Voldemort, leagues ahead of him in every way imaginable—power, experience, knowledge.

He was Tom Riddle. Harry had defeated him before.

And now, finally, Harry felt on even footing with him.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t still dangerous, though. And Harry had no intention of putting his friends in harm’s way, no matter how safe they thought they were.

Reggie grumbled to himself, but Harry took it as grudging compliance. He was always surprised whenever anyone who wasn’t Ron or Hermione—and even them sometimes, to some extent—yielded to his wishes, but Harry knew by now it was because Reggie was a good friend. Even when he didn’t completely understand Harry’s decisions.

“You want more eggs?” Reggie asked, dumping a spoonful of fluffy, scrambled eggs onto Harry’s plate without so much as giving him a chance to respond.

Harry rolled his eyes, hoping Reggie didn’t see how fond the gesture was. He didn’t need encouragement. Honestly, he was more of a mother hen than Molly Weasley.

—

If there was one thing about this time that was alike to his own, it was just how much he hated Potions class.

Many times over the past couple of months he’d been here he had wanted to smack his past self in the face for thinking it would be a good idea to take the class—he had no intention of staying in this time, and so had no reason for a NEWT in the subject. Even Divination would have been better, if only so he wouldn’t be in any kind of proximity to Riddle.

Alas, without the help of the Half-Blood Prince— _Severus Snape_ , his mind supplied remorselessly—he was utter bollocks. His only consolation was at least this was his last class of the day, and soon he’d be able to head back to Gryffindor tower to collapse in bed. Reggie might even be persuaded into grabbing some dinner for him.

“Ah, Mr Dursley.”

Harry twitched, as much at the name as at the man speaking it. It had occurred to him when he’d first popped into this time that it might be prudent to keep his true identity secret. Unfortunately, he was not as quick to make up a new name, and Dursley had fallen out of his mouth like a badly cooked meal before he could stop it.

Professor Slughorn leaned over his shoulder, looking into his cauldron with poorly-masked dismay. Harry could not entirely blame him—the potion they were meant to be brewing was supposed to be a warm orange. The textbook declared that, if done correctly, it would emanate a sweet, vanilla scent.

Harry’s potion was a mustard yellow that bubbled incessantly, and smelled more tangy than sweet. He couldn’t remember if he’d even added the goosegrass or not.

“Perhaps you need better instruction. Not all students learn the same way, my boy, nothing to be ashamed of.”

Harry could feel his face turning red, and he glowered at his cauldron so he wouldn’t snap something he’d later regret at Slughorn. The sympathetic glances shot at him by Reggie went completely ignored.

“I could assist him, Professor.”

The feigned generosity of that low drawl had Harry pondering the consequences of dunking his entire head into his failed potion.

“That’s very good of you, Tom, thank you. You’ll help him with this potion after class and tell me if he’ll be needing more tutoring in future.”

It burned Harry that he didn’t get a say in whether or not he even wanted help, let alone help from _Riddle_ , but he was hardly surprised. So very few decisions that affected his life had ever been his own to make.

Reggie dallied after class, looking like he was trying to think of something encouraging to say while also shooting venomous glares at Riddle as he approached them. Eventually, when he saw there would be no resolving this predicament, he settled with saying, “I’ll save you some dinner for when you get back to the tower.”

Harry nodded and ignored the last helpless glance he lobbed at him, not watching as Reggie walked out of the classroom.

Slughorn left soon after, and Riddle took the seat that had been Reggie’s. With a flick of his wand, he vanished the deficient potion from Harry’s cauldron, leaving its insides glimmering and spotless.

Being so close to the boy who would one day grow up into Harry’s personal nightmare made Harry’s skin prickle—with disgust, fear, or enmity Harry didn’t know. Perhaps a bit of all three.

To his surprise, Riddle did not try to make conversation. He simply instructed Harry as he had said he would, providing demonstrations that Harry mostly ignored in favor of glaring at him some more. He criticized Reggie for his lack of subtlety, but sometimes Harry wasn’t any better.

“You hate me.”

Harry’s eyes widened at the non sequitur. “What?”

A smirk played on Riddle’s face, possibly due to Harry’s not immediate denial. “We have never met before, to my own recollection, and yet you avoid me as if you believe I’ve contracted a truly dreadful case of dragon pox, you glare at me whenever you think I’m not paying attention like I’m personally responsible for the death of your mother”—Harry sucked in a sharp breath—“and the first time we properly met, you shot a hex at me—unprovoked, might I add—that was strong enough to choke me to death.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Harry knew Riddle was not offended so much as he was curious, which was debatably worse.

“Answer my question.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d asked me anything.” Harry enjoyed watching the way Riddle’s nostrils flared, clocking his clenched fists and controlled breathing.

“Why do you hate me?” Riddle’s dark eyes bore into his own. Harry could feel the telltale prodding of a _Legilimens_ , and he forced Riddle out of his mind with such force he gave himself a headache. This was not the first time Riddle had tried to read his mind, and Harry was sure he’d keep pushing until he got what he wanted, but that didn’t mean Harry wouldn’t give as good as he got.

“You’re delusional,” he said flippantly, flicking some of the goosegrass he’d missed the last time into the potion, precisely for the reason he was not supposed to. He openly delighted in the way Riddle gritted his teeth. Even Harry had to commend him for his control.

“You are evading the question.”

“I don’t hate you, Riddle,” Harry lied, if only to end this conversation. “Hatred would imply I concern myself with you at all, and I most certainly do not.”

With that, Harry grabbed his textbook and his bag, making to leave the classroom. He really didn’t care what Slughorn would say, should he ever find out about it.

“Where are you going?” Riddle demanded, his stool screeching as he jumped up from it. “We’re not finished.”

“Yes, we are,” Harry countered as he reached the door. “I’m tired and hungry, and frankly, Riddle, you’re boring. Goodbye.”

He ducked out right before a hex could strike him in the back of the head.

Riddle really shouldn’t have followed him.


	2. part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains elements of dub-con/non-con. i will not be writing a sequel. if you don't like it, don't read it.

“Dursley!”

Harry grimaced. It looked like Riddle wanted to have it out in the hallway—not ideal, but a quick survey about himself told him there weren’t any lingering students who could get caught in the crossfire—and Harry was ready and willing to give him a fight, no matter how much the voice in his head—which sounded suspiciously like Hermione—told him it was a bad idea.

When had bad ideas ever stopped him?

Harry discreetly slid his hand into his robe’s pocket, his fingers curling around his wand. He didn’t pull it out just yet, though. Riddle would have to make the first move, and when he did, Harry would be ready.

Riddle was much closer than he’d been expecting when he turned around. Harry jerked back but was not prepared for the way Riddle reached out and seized his robe’s collar and so could not prevent it from happening. Riddle took advantage of his surprise and shoved him up against the wall—Harry had never in his life wished he was taller more than he wished it right now. He despised the way Riddle towered over him, like he was a second year weakling cowering before a much bigger—and badder—seventh year.

They grappled for a moment, Harry squirming in Riddle’s hold and trying to dig his nails in whatever flesh he could reach. He hadn’t been expecting a physical fight like some sort of Muggle brawl, but he wasn’t afraid to play dirty. Now he just needed somewhere to latch on with his teeth.

But Riddle snatched both his wrists and slammed them up against the wall beside his head before Harry could act on this thought. Harry outright snarled, bucking against Riddle’s grip and bringing his leg up to kick him, knock him back, anything to gain control. But Riddle thwarted that too, stepping closer and thrusting his leg between both of Harry’s, pressing his whole body up against him.

Heat radiated off Riddle like he was an inferno, lighting up Harry’s nerves at every point they were in contact. Riddle had never appeared so disheveled, his dark hair tousled and his breathing erratic, his robes rumpled to a degree that would have horrified Aunt Petunia if she ever saw them—a thrill of satisfaction shot through Harry at the sight. He knew he got under Riddle’s skin like no other, but having the physical proof of how much he affected him right before his eyes was nothing less than gratifying.

Riddle glared at him, lips curling. “You are— ”

“Infuriating?” Harry sneered. He wondered dangerously what Riddle would do if he spit at him. “You’re not the first one to have thought so, believe me.”

“Perplexing,” Riddle corrected.

And Harry bucked again, enraged, because _perplexing_?He was _perplexing_? You didn’t destroy a person’s life because they were perplexing. You didn’t harass somebody because you _didn’t understand them_.

Something savage bubbled just beneath his skin, something vicious and wild, and threatening enough to make him do something he wouldn’t in his right mind. It only took a single glance upwards to catch the look in Riddle’s eyes, to see the burning curiosity there, the frustration, the contradicted scorn, the _want_. And Harry lost it.

Later he might justify it to himself by saying he only did it to gain the upper hand, to take back control. A shock tactic was all it was.

Really, though, a hatred he had rarely felt overflowed inside him, consumed him, and he succumbed to it like a puppet on a string.

Their mouths smashed together painfully—Riddle’s lips were not pillowy or soft; they felt nothing like Ginny’s or Cho’s—and their teeth clacked. Riddle’s eyes widened. At first he tried to back up, push away, but Harry followed him, relentless in his attack, indulging the wicked parts of him that craved the pleasure of catching Riddle by surprise.

Now he was on the offensive. He was the one who rammed Riddle into the wall, their positions switched. He was the one grabbing Riddle’s robe collar, his other hand snaking up into his hair, entangling his fingers in the impossibly soft curls at the nape of his neck, yanking and tugging until Riddle surrendered.

Electric shocks jolted through him when he felt Riddle’s long, warm fingers grip the back of his neck, pulling him _forward_. Riddle’s other arm locked around his waist, drawing him closer still. He nipped at Harry’s lips, his tongue laving the tender skin. His breath was hot— _burning, crippling_ —and for a moment, Harry forgot who was being ravaged and who was doing the ravaging.

No. _No, no, no_.

_He_ had the upper hand. _He_ was in charge.

Harry wrenched himself away with a great deal of effort, his fingers latching onto Riddle’s wrist tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. He hoped it hurt.

There was a dim, narrow hallway to his left that Harry yanked Riddle down, for which he was met with only a token protest. The hall led to a convenient door of an unused classroom that Harry unlocked with a simple, wandless _Alohomora_. He dragged Riddle into the room behind him and barely gave himself enough time to shut and ward the door before he was on him again.

Riddle gave as good as he got, and Harry wasn’t sure if he was pleased by that or annoyed. He yanked off Riddle’s outer robes without opposition and then ripped off his shirt next, smug in how the buttons tore and went flying.

“I liked that shirt,” Riddle drawled.

“ _Shut up_.” Harry couldn’t help the way Riddle’s torso drew his attention, slim and wiry without an ounce of extra fat. He wasn’t overtly muscular, but power lurked in the way he held himself—underneath that enthralling, snow white skin was a mastery of body, mind, and magic.

It took only a second, one moment of distraction, and Riddle flipped the tables again. He scooped Harry up in his arms and threw him on top of the nearest desk, unbothered by Harry’s head slamming against the surface or the hiss of pain that slipped past his lips before he could stop it.

Harry struggled against his grip, a wild panic flaring to life inside him as Riddle loomed over him, threatening ruin and destruction if he didn’t get a hold over it. Riddle meticulously rid him of his robes, tie, shirt, and trousers, looking completely at ease. None of his earlier disarray shown on his face or in his movements, and Harry _seethed_.

With a considerable surge of magic, Harry sent Riddle soaring. He watched in satisfaction as Riddle knocked violently into another desk, causing it to tip over and hit the floor with a resounding _bang_. Riddle flailed and cursed as he followed, back and limbs painfully colliding with the floor.

That was going to leave a bruise.

Harry pushed himself upright, pausing for only a moment as his head spun dizzyingly, before stumbling over to where Riddle had yet to pull himself up. “ _Bastard_ ,” he spit, all but falling on top of him. He fumbled with the fastenings on Riddle’s trousers, tugging and jerking with little success.

“Wretch,” Riddle countered, slapping away Harry’s hands as he reached down to undo his trousers himself. They wrestled with each other’s pants for a while until they were both naked and writhing on the cold floor of a forgotten classroom, their only source of light filtering in through the small window in the door from the hallway.

If Reggie could see him now.

Harry shook the thought away as they fought for dominance, a constant tug-of-war that made his blood boil and his cock harden. Arousal spiked through his veins and set him on edge, heady and unrelenting— _disgraceful_.

“I grow tired of this barbaric tussling.” Riddle finally managed to flip them over, pinning Harry to the floor and using his weight to keep him down. His cock, hot, hard, and weeping, brushed up against Harry’s own and forced Harry to bite down on his lip so he wouldn’t cry out. “ _Stop. Fighting._ ”

_Never_ , Harry thought but didn’t get the chance to say, as right before he tried to open his mouth something blunt and solid brushed up against his opening, driving him to chew down on his lip once more. Something metallic-tasting seeped past his teeth and gathered on his tongue.

Riddle’s wet fingertip—when had he had the chance to cast a lubrication spell?—pushed past his rim, one knuckle, then two, and before long his entire finger was thrusting in and out of Harry’s hole with unfaltering intention.

Harry twitched and thrashed, one hand rising to tangle in Riddle’s ruffled hair, wrenching his head down so he could claim his lips and muffle a whimper at the same time. He unabashedly bore down on Riddle’s finger, his nails digging into the flesh of Riddle’s shoulder.

Two and then three fingers entered after the first, driving into him incessantly with impeccable aim. They brushed up against that perfect spot inside him, ruthless, again and again and _again_. The pleasure blinded him.

When Riddle pulled out, Harry’s hole clenched around the emptiness, bereft. He whined pitifully, and then wanted to curl up in mortification. When had this gotten so out of his control?

Riddle shushed him, like he was a bloody infant mewling for its mother. “ _Fuck you_ ,” Harry said, rough, defensive, and woefully breathless.

“I’ll be doing the fucking, thank you.”

With that, Riddle hauled him closer and, with a single, swift motion, plunged his cock deep inside him, all the way to the very hilt.

Harry cried out, his back arching, his fingers scrambling for purchase on Riddle’s person. Riddle didn’t allow for his grasping hands, however, forcing Harry back down with one hand while he mumbled something that fastened Harry’s arms to the floor and restrained him like a physical force never could.

Panic flared inside him again, warring with his sheer indignation. Merlin, but he _hated_ him.

Voldemort had always, _always_ , underestimated him, viewing him as an inconvenience but never a true threat. Again and again, Harry prevailed, but Voldemort never learned.

Riddle was no different. He thought he could take and take and never be held responsible. Never have to face any serious consequences for his actions. Because he was Tom Riddle, and Tom Riddle bowed to _no one_.

_Enough!_ Something inside him roared. He would be plagued by Tom Riddle no longer.

They said Lord Voldemort could not feel remorse. Well, Harry thought, he by himself had more than enough to share. More than enough to cripple a lesser being, even.

His mind went back—forward?—to when he was he was in his own time. To when he’d offered to clear out Snape’s old stuff from the Headmaster’s office since Snape had no other family or, indeed, friends to do it instead. Looking back, this decision had been the catalyst for his journey to the past, but he didn’t linger on his regret now as he was in the habit of doing. Instead, he thought back on the journal he’d found filled with the familiar Half-Blood Prince’s script. Of course, now he knew who the penmanship belonged to, but imagining it as Snape’s was somehow too much to handle.

The journal had been filled with theories and studies on Legilimency. This was not surprising, seeing how vital it had been for Snape to be proficient in the arts of both Legilimency and Occlumency to effectively deceive the Dark Lord. The writings went beyond research, however. Snape was infamous for his experimentation—the Sectumsempra curse could attest to that.

Snape wrote of a spell that allowed the caster to enter someone’s mind, not with the intention of reading it, but to force one’s own thoughts, feelings, and imaginings in instead.

Riddle was, by now, an excellent Occlumens, but he would not have known of this spell in 1944. And therefore, Harry hoped, he would not have been able to put defenses up against it.

Harry stared up into Riddle’s dark eyes, panting each time he thrust into him, acutely aware of the fingers leaving bruises on his hips. He could not help seeing Riddle as vulnerable in his ignorance, but alas, this did nothing to stop him.

He dove into Riddle’s mind and was met with shocked resistance. Harry pushed through with a determination that had got him through most of life’s conflicts intact. Before Riddle could find a way to repel him, Harry flooded him with every last drop of remorse, grief, torment, and despair that had weighed him down for almost his entire life. The agony was staggering, being forced to feel every bit of it over again as if for the first time. He barely recognized Riddle’s faltering thrusts inside him, fixated as he was on fighting Riddle’s attempts to force him out.

All of his suffering, he gave to Riddle. Obscure and without context, he gave him only his heightened emotions.

All the times he’d longed for the Dursley’s approval, yearned for a loving touch or a comforting hug. The hunger pains, the loneliness, the fear that something was innately wrong with him, something that couldn’t be fixed. He gave him his grief for his lost parents, all the hugs and kisses he’d had stolen from him, all the encouragement, the life lessons and little moments that could have shaped him into the person he should have been.

He gave him the self-loathing, the anger, the helplessness. The fear of that courtyard that never went away, forever haunting his dreams. The guilt for Cedric’s death— _his fault, he should’ve known, should’ve been faster, should’ve done better_. The unfairness of having so many against him, for blaming him, for calling him a liar. The betrayal. The regret of needless death. Losing Sirius, Dumbledore, Hedwig, Dobby, Fred, Remus, Tonks, _Snape._ Countless others.

He gave him the unimaginable terror, not only for himself, but for all of his friends and their families. For the hundreds of innocents who were relying on him. The expectations, so heavy upon his shoulders it was a miracle his knees hadn’t buckled.

He gave him every physical ache that had ever troubled him. Every punch and kick from Dudley’s merciless beatings. Every broken bone, and every wound and bruise. Every headache—most especially the throbbing torture of his ever-present scar because Voldemort was a dick who couldn’t contain his rage, couldn’t control the emotions that he pretended didn’t touch him. Every hex and every curse. Every single line of _I must not tell lies._

He gave him his uncertainties. His doubts that he could teach anyone how to protect themselves better, that he could save them. That he could be a hero. That he would not succumb to the darkness.

Harry gave Riddle all of his anguish, misery, and trauma. Every opportunity he’d missed out on because he wasn’t a normal boy with a normal life. He gave him all the late nights, all the exhaustion, and all the nightmares.

He gave him all of his overwhelming sorrow. For everything he had lost, and for everyone else’s losses as well. For all that might have been had things been different. Had the world been another place.

And he gave him his hatred, the most draining part of him. He gave him all the disgust he’d ever felt for the lack of humanity in so many humans. His despising of cowardice, and for all the people in the world who saw something was wrong but did _nothing._ His utter loathing for Riddle himself—for everything he’d put him through, for everything he’d been forced to do because of him, for the very fact that fate had seemed to intertwine them, two souls destined to never be rid of each other.

All of it.

Riddle was no longer thrusting into him—in fact, he seemed to actively be trying to get away from him in any way he could. Harry took advantage of the failed spell to keep him restrained and flipped them over. Then he was on top. He was in control.

He shackled Riddle’s wrists to the floor using his own hands, and fucked himself on Riddle’s cock, hard and fast and powerful. Riddle writhed beneath him, gasping wetly at the way Harry clenched around him, unforgiving. Tears—actual _tears_ —clung to Riddle’s lashes as he bucked helplessly beneath him. His lips moved, and he seemed to be mumbling something over and over. Harry leant down, not once losing eye contact, and heard, “ _Stop, stop, stop…_ ”

He sincerely wished he could. He was almost sorry. Almost.

Guilt festered in the pit of his stomach, and he contemplated it as well as he could while riding a cock. What was he doing? This wasn’t right, surely. Tom Riddle may be evil incarnate, but Harry was supposed to be better. He was supposed to be good. They’d called him a hero.

They’d also said Tom Riddle couldn’t know love.

What if they were wrong?

Harry let go of one of Riddle’s wrists and gently cupped his face. Riddle glared up at him but didn’t jerk away. Maybe he couldn’t. The desperation in his eyes was a plea that Harry unfortunately couldn’t comprehend.

He wished he could ask permission, but he was too afraid the answer would be ‘no.’ So he didn’t. He plunged back into the depths of Riddle’s mind and was met by no resistance at all this time. He startled, looking and finding nothing.

Riddle’s mind was a chasm before him, empty and suffocating and deprived.

_Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love._

Harry suddenly ached for him. How had he not seen it before?

Love.

Love was the product of joy, happiness, recognition. Had Riddle ever known joy? Had he ever experienced pure, unadulterated happiness? Had he ever been unconditionally, whole-heartedly _known_ by somebody?

Had he ever wanted to?

Was that the difference between them?

_I’m sorry._

And he was. Sorry for the way Riddle had decided to live his life. But not sorry for the way he was about to push him off track. Not sorry for what he was going to do next.

Harry gathered all the love, joy, and happiness he’d ever felt and poured it into the gaping chasm before him.

He gave him the delight he’d felt at receiving his very own letter for the first time. The wonder of meeting Hagrid. Of being told he was a wizard, of _belonging_ somewhere. Of knowing he was not weird at all, that there were hundreds out there just like him.

He gave him his awe. Magic was amazing, incredible, impossibly not impossible. Harry knew that Riddle had felt the same upon learning he was a wizard from Dumbledore, but he wanted to remind him. He wanted him to remember how exciting it was, learning about it for the first time.

He offered his eagerness in finally having a friend for the first time in his life—Hedwig was simply marvelous—then having another, and then another.

He gave him the thrill of flying, of being free of the responsibilities that held him to the ground. The exhilaration of living in the moment, not knowing exactly what his next move was going to be, but trusting himself enough to know that whatever came next he’d be able to handle it.

He gave him the merriment of getting presents on Christmas morning because there were people who cared about him now. And he gave him the contentment of giving in return because there was nothing quite like being the reason for someone’s smile.

Harry gave him his bitter sweetness—because love had both ups and downs—of finally knowing his parents, of seeing their faces, their smiles, their happiness and knowing without a shadow of doubt that they had loved him back.

He gave him warmth, fondness, and affection. The wonderful surprise of having adults care about him—Sirius, Remus, Molly, Dumbledore. He gave him the gratitude from being given a cloak that once belonged to his dad and a sweater with an unmistakable H on the front that declared he was part of a family now.

He gave him friendship, the only kind that knew true devotion. The unbearable truth that someone would do anything for him because he was important to them.

Harry gave Riddle all the little moments life was made up of, all the reasons life was worth living, and showered them upon him.

And Riddle shuddered in response, a cry wrested out of him as he came inside Harry like he was in pain.

He cradled Riddle through his orgasm even as his own cock pulsed, dribbling all over Riddle’s abdomen.

He wanted to lay there for a moment, on top of him, lose himself to the way Riddle was trembling beneath him, wipe away the tears that wet Riddle’s cheeks.

But when he shifted up to look into Riddle’s eyes, he froze at the void he saw there. Riddle stared right through him.

Harry’s stomach clenched.

He tenderly pulled off of him and stumbled away in shock—what had he done? That was the only thing replaying in his mind as he gathered his clothes and donned them. He glanced again at Riddle, as if lured by him, but Riddle had not moved an inch but to follow him with his gaze.

A shiver rippled down his spine, and all he could think to do was leave.

**Author's Note:**

> please review lovlies, you are the reason I'm writing this nonsense <3
> 
> hit me up on [tumblr](https://padraigendragon.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
